Tag Archives: sex

// silence //

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your silence lives inside me
snakes around the tender parts
that hurt and beg,
that would crawl a thousand miles on holy water to
drown you underneath.
while i’m busy with carving sandcastles, hiding
from the sun and servicing the afternoon,
your silence pours hot ocean waves over my chest,
lights a cigarette and
spends the night.
it wets the cunning valleys of my body down
in streams, courses through my veins
as i imagine your
release.
my knees on the pavement, i’m praying for you
to remember my
eyes.
your silence watches me
tongues the carnal wreckage of my darkness
licks the burning pages, tears and
discards them.
undone by beautiful delusion,
i know what this looks like
and what it does to you.
a single butterfly moves its wings
inside a shot glass
between my teeth
on the other side
of the world.
my perversion of you is handfuls of
machine fingers measuring my neck
dressing and undressing me in animal skin
shed by the gods who walked a dying earth
alone
only
decades
ago,
i press my limbs against dreams with rose petals for
fists
gasping at the gasoline air you would feed me
but draw instead back in.
your silence it lives
inside me;
striking match after
match as
it speaks.

.

.

// desire //

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I am the consummation of desire.

I hunger and thirst and scream inside to quench an endless aching cycle of desires, wants, needs – some real, some required, some imagined, some sought, some denied.

This is how we breed and are bred.

Celestial oscillations between the shred of frustration and the collapse of molten satisfaction.

But the dangerous, the taut, the mysterious, the rare human creature will invoke a need without intent to satisfy it. She will hold herself within the tension between these two poles to find that satisfaction is not the pulse, anticipation is.

A willing mind hung inside this suspended place develops an affection for the unlimited richness, an overflow of toothsome sensations and experiences which exist only inside that electrified space between satisfied / not satisfied.

What a crime to live a life chasing nothing in the end without savoring the chase. How tragic to be ignorant to the divine clutches of raw frustration.

That which we deny, denies us.

What mad ecstasy to dangle on a hook, torn between the pleasure of attaining our desires… and the pleasure of not.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and affection. x

// art & sex //

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my sex in your mouth like
summer melting glass over steel city buildings
but i know better
that all we ever truly seek
to erect is
knowledge.
that the only real stimulation
is a taste of the torture of desire inside
a mind that finds its own reflection beautiful
in the awe struck through it by
wondering at the strangeness of
another;
a
twisted creature as
mad as
we.
the glory of art,
the hunger of passion,
the fall and rise of the crave to give and receive pleasure,
is ultimately a swimming out
toward fear
in the heavy hopes of
getting beyond it to a
place of peace.
you before me with your face
and your tears in my
hands.
we seek to know how to save
ourselves, how to release ourselves of
something we must break free of, some flawed way of thinking or being from which we
seek absolution.
we want to know, ultimately, intimately, in raw human form,
the gripping power of our own
divine mystery.
we want to be one with the Self beyond the self,
the Self that is free of these bodies we
obsess over, these alien bodies with their demented burning needs and their curious imperfections.
art and sex are creative
acts of faith, acts of defiance,
little spinning feathers of death.
the blood and sweat,
the pulse of this life,
the advancing pursuit of
solace,
is
treachery.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// kneel //

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the bend in the river
matches the way my
body turns away from itself without my
help.
when i write
i’m suspended somewhere between the life
they need me to live and
the death none of us will
escape.
inside i can feel the moons orbiting the planets and the
crushing energy of their cyclical motion excites me
everywhere.
i am the frenzy of the chaotic light and the nectar of the
infinite dark
i am the lion and the
lamb,
the altar and the sword.
i’m stretched in two, pricked by everything and awash in oblivion
trying desperately to worship
something intolerable
while begging
forgiveness from something i
don’t
understand.
in case you thought i was perfect
or a mess or
not trying hard enough
believe me, these things have difficult faces
that reach for me.
my mouth is a red velvet
confessional
of
words.
maybe i owe something i cannot
ever
recover
maybe we are all after something
we think and pray and hope is
release.
if i kneel before you
would you know
exactly
who you are?
life is not easy when
the air i need is your tattooed flesh
and suffocation is new life,
when i dream in the colored ribbons of madness
and this self-conscious world deflowers itself
for the gray.
the catastrophe of love is freedom
laced with
pain
and somehow we keep
on with
the
breathing.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// riotous //

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A writer is always writing. It is not something that ever leaves or sleeps.
Writing is an alien life force living itself through you.
It is born of you, gnaws on you, touches you in places so tender your only blind instinct is to kneel and listen. Writing is divine command, one hand on your throat as the other traces the curves along your sides.
The word is the shape of your shape, the gap between your thighs.
It is the collapse into rage, the madness of hunger, the fire you swallow and can scarcely believe.
Poetry ruptures in cascading waves from the motion of my lengthy body twisting in white sheets, I watch myself in dreams as you find your way across my steady breathing, slow.
Words like claws scratch their black rebellious ink in dark rooms I keep hidden in my psyche, centuries of breeding stories threaten to be told, forcing their rough thumbs against my patient lips.
When it’s time, I speak, and not before.
There is a creation I’m becoming, a creature at work on a canvas behind my eyes, inside my veins, it rises and spins, pulls at my lungs and my organs, I emerge for it bound and willing, we advance toward another place.
Prose grows swollen, thick amber honey in the way I scream inside a contracting womb for the pain beneath my skin at birth.
I’m hypnotized, transfixed, muted, strung out on flashes of light on the ceiling as you wrap my temptress hair in braids and I pray.
Like thunder slamming against the hollow caverns in my chest, the words take my breath in sharp clips and deliver it back to me in tremendous, crushing waterfalls, plunging over my grateful body, washing me clean.
Cold glances meet my reluctant gaze, I look to you and reach for something you carry in a place you’ve not yet seen, but I know where I left it when we came together last. You were a letter I was too terrified to send. I want to place my hands into your stomach and melt you, take you there against your will and watch you in ecstasy, this magical decay where all your senses are exceeded, expended and depleted.
Heavy footsteps against wet city streets, cigarettes for fingers, your graffiti back against the wall, all of it writes itself in the echo of typewriter keys punching on the screens running mad, the scribbled reels of static white noise ignite my riotous mind.
Flames writhing, licking at the edges of the sacrificial pages of my torn frustration, the way I imagine my wrists taste like metal wounds in your mouth. How I wonder what we are searching for and how we know the scent of homes and humans we’ve never built, never led, never kissed, never met.
There are words within me always, I part my lips around them in silence, in seduction, in the destructive core of every buried desire, in my inexplicable readiness to risk the full exposure of my bizarre script of uncomfortable perversions for them to see. Fear is never far from Love, one is the lurking thief of the other.  A dance we learn, the art of the way we play for keeps and returns.
Writers are always writing to die and writing to rise.
I am as the Creator created me Feminine, Masculine, Human, Divine, to deliver the keys to the doors to freedom and offer them as they open, one inside another, inside another; we are the gates and the guards, the beggars and the masters, we are the windows opening into castles in the sky.
These words in my head I need them, these words you’ve just read, I belong to them. I have come here for them, for them, for them until the end.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// alone //

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Alone is an animal, hunting and slaughtered for meat.

Alone is a criminal, thieving and caught by knives at the throat.

Alone is a deity, breathing and death for five thousand years rising up through your rib cage, staring back at you in the mirror, speaking with newborn tongues.

Alone is poetry eating itself, becoming itself, words created and starved on the disrupted exposure of human bodies in full orgasm.

The words don’t need anything you don’t have but they won’t commune, they will not burn you, they will not pray for you, they will not bear succulent fruit for less than their worth.

Present yourself, bow into them, swim out to them beaten and blind and they will hold you like the fearless hands of God.

She will bow beneath you, reach inside your blood and offer you back to yourself.

Alone is worship at the bottom of every violent river only to recognize the fear as the maddening feel of wet caves dripping inside your mind; it is nights under a moonless sky begging forgiveness, begging entrance, begging release.

Alone is waking at the swell of dawn in the quiet rain, touching yourself with the ghost hands of another who knew you once more intimately than you now know yourself, and waits like a lion in sharp blades of tall grass for your return.

Alone is sacrament, alone is masochist, alone is ritual, alone is feet on the floorboards walking through seven painted doors down a vacant hall.

Alone is handcuffs and liberation, broken pianos playing themselves in the dark.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// feast //

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my ravishing predator, the
ghost of you
takes beautiful shape
and walks at my side
all
the days
since that day,
walks through me.
it is
collecting me
one piece at a time.
borrows my heart
bargains with my pale body
stabs
at my back and
forces its tongue
where it should not
be
but i don’t stop the
haunt:
go
deeper.
skeletons dressing in my
skin
they grope me at length
for a desperate
love
a web of moth nerves that
will
not
die
feeds on my mouth as their wings
slip
inside;
a feast where i feast
anything to keep
them agile
and me alive.
you move your grayish eyes
like handsome stacks of headstones,
turn them to look
at me as
i burst into flames.
fires consummate the curtains and race across the sky
i am at home
again
here.
ashes to ashes
your burning breath takes finally my lungs
and a brilliant carnal
darkness drops
over all
the
earth.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

How to Get the Love You Desire (Fast & Easy)

We have to do more.

Right? I mean, what we’ve done isn’t enough.

Right? Because we’re still lost and confused and aren’t exactly sure what we’re doing or should do next (quite possibly it’s chocolate, though, whatever the fuck it is).

On some existential level (and to sort of box up our random idiotic cravings and shove them under the proverbial bed) we simmer all this vague “needing” to do the “more” down to “needing more love.”

We seek for love.

Don’t we?

We look for love in everything – we want love from our family, our dog, our kids, our killer abs, our boy/girl/friend’s killer abs, our talent, our blog, our followers, our art, our sex, our fantasies, our work, our homes, our partner, our vibrator, our new haircut (no, you look so cute tho, seriously).

But love isn’t any of those things (okay, maybe we’re on the fence about the vibrator but let’s try to focus, kids).

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How Deep Is Your Love? The Art & Struggle of Surrender

We don’t want to give it all up.

As sexy as it sounds to surrender ourselves, we’re terrified of what it would mean to actually do it completely.

As lovely as it rolls across the mind to say we will surrender, we don’t often (ever?) intend to give up the struggle and inhabit the peace of mind we say we want.

It’s just not that easy.

What if I invited you to consider that this poem . . .

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How to MAJORLY Build Your Self-Confidence by Doing This ONE Badass Thing

Right, so we’ll get to building your sexy ass confidence in just a second, good friend.

First tho, here’s a fun trick to try if you’d like to test your creative confidence; publish a blog post about erotica, get everybody all seduced and lathered up, and then come back a week later and publish another blog post.

About anything.

About anything else.

Post about something else – after riffing about touching and stroking and fingering – and expect anyone to give a shit about what could possibly come after all that goodness.

I hear you. I know. But never fear, my love. I’ve got you. I am not afraid.

I have something even hotter to talk about this week, if you can possibly fathom that (I realize a blogger with any sense at all would be concerned about deliberately stacking this kind of dangerous pyramid scheme of expectations but nobody’s here to play it safe, I sincerely hope).

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Erotica: Finding Pleasure in the Essential Art of Touch

Fair warning, lovers: This one will be very different from the others. (Are you reading this at the office, by the way? Because you might not want to be reading this at the office. But then again, maybe you really do.)

Consistency is divine but so is disruption. So is surprise.

This post is not about how to’s or fixing or changing anything. It’s about feeling.

Feeling. Everything.

Feeling, it seems to me, is a precious and increasingly scarce form of artistry. People are numbed out all over the damn place trying to avoid feelings of pain but also, in more cases than we seem to realize, trying to avoid feelings of good honest organic pleasure (because, you know, the guilt and the guilt and the guilt and everything – and then there’s the guilt).

Odd things, we.

Maybe it’s better (more accurate? more tragic?) to say that avoiding our feelings has become a twisted art form in itself.

Somehow, in these overcharged, overstimulating, hyper-sexed times, we end up numb and ashamed when all we really crave is to be touched and awakened.

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The Realest Way to Keep Sh*t Real In Art & Life (Really for Real)

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Allison Marie for glorybegin.com

Incredibly, there’s still a lot of noise on the interwebs about being “authentic” and “keeping shit real” in our lives, in our work, in our relationships, in our swim suits, in our Instagram galleries.

(By the way, whomever started #nofilter, I’m starting #damnrightitsfiltered. If I wanted everything to look like it does on any given pimple-faced Wednesday I’d still be wearing jelly bracelets stacked to my elbows and using those trashable wind-up cameras from the 90’s while getting way over excited that they take pictures underwater now! Stop it. Everything should look like a classic black and white Humphrey Bogart film.)

Of course, some of the noise about keeping shit real comes from yours truly, mind you, so the irony that I’m calling us out on it is not lost on me.  Smug-Allison-Marie is even a little proud of that noise because it’s important noise to be making (she believes).

But somewhere amidst the chaotic weirdness of $5 selfie-sticks and $zilliondollar celebrity, we seem to have confused “being real” with being loud, obnoxious, rude, disrespectful, ignorant, and in an obscene number of cases . . . NOT REAL.

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How to Write Like Sex and Dance on a Pinhead

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You think you know a person, right. And then she pulls some random shit like this on you.

What is happening right now. You’d like to know. I bet.

You think you know yourself.

You think you know all there is to know inside what you already know and then you got comfortable there.

I’d like to disrupt you for a second, babe, if that’s cool. Because while you are warm and snuggled there in the chaise lounge corner of your punchy Ikea Nockeby sectional, your mind is getting dull and your face is pulling sunken and your beautiful, beautiful wild spirit is growing stupid-restless.

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